


if i'm gonna fall, it'll be from high places

by ArmedWithAStaringFly



Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, references to parental abuse, semi-songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 08:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11870562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmedWithAStaringFly/pseuds/ArmedWithAStaringFly
Summary: "Perhaps his life was a waste. But he knew how he wanted to waste it."How Toby Hamilton decided to take back control of his life, from both the abuses of his past and the threat of the future.





	if i'm gonna fall, it'll be from high places

**Author's Note:**

> "And you’re my nation, my revolution  
> Living right now, well you can call it disillusioned  
> Until tomorrow comes  
> This is how we run"  
> -Fletcher, Wasted Youth

Toby didn’t even realize it at first, when his eyes started sliding over to the young Indian man behind the bar. 

It would just be glances. Quick looks as he trailed pages on the book he was reading, almost as if the bartender were another word between the others. He would see him flick his wrist to pour a shot into the mixer, or fill a glass with a smooth tip of the bottle…fluid, almost graceful movements that practically seemed like choreography to the beat of Betsy’s low notes. Watching him was interesting. Interesting and calming, and in this time of war and his father’s watchful glare, Toby could use any calm he could get. It was almost a relaxation technique, a meditation–when Father would quip about his notes being lower than Freddie’s, or when talk of the Germans got even more grim, or when the voice in his head would remind him how his life would never be of importance, he’d look over to the bar and it was like his troubles melted away in the rhythmic movements.  

Watching that man almost turned into a game. See how many looks he could sneak, before he’d get embarrassed with himself and immediately snap his eyes back to his book. You’re absurd, he’d tell himself. You should be out and about, like Freddie. Sauntering around in a military uniform. Smiling with confidence. Charming rich young ladies at the bar like every other man, like Mother and Father wish you would start doing. The women were handsome enough, he supposed, with curled hair and powdered cheeks, but the urge never came. Not even after all the years that Toby tried to force himself into seeing what is was about them that he was seemingly missing. 

But watching that bartender came oddly naturally. 

He knew the man’s name. Mr. Adil Joshi, who certainly stood out among the rest of the staff, and not just because of his dark skin and distant accent. His features were long and thin, almost delicate, from his gentle face to his fingers that poured and shook the mixers. Most of the staff’s smalltalk or friendly nods were merely rehearsed politeness, particularly to the son of the hotel’s owner. But Mr. Joshi’s almond eyes crinkled with a smile when he asked what “Mr. Hamilton” would like to drink. He often noted the title of the whatever book he was reading that day. He gave low chuckles at Toby’s awkward jokes. 

Still, Toby was not naive enough to think that meant Joshi cared about him. And in any case, he really shouldn’t want a personal relationship with the staff. Only the most desperate, half drunken, and lonely customers truly think the service staff care about them, or that quick glance over their shoulder was in their direction, or that the bartender remembered their preferred order out of fondness rather than a desire for tips. That they may be a real friend and confidant. 

But this one was very, very good at faking it. Especially to Toby. 

And it wasn’t long before Toby, to his interest and worry, found that those dark eyes were as easy to stare at as his bar-tending. 

But the real world had its way of demanding his attention. And usually that came in the form of his Father, standing over him and looming like a great shadow being cast.

“Stop daydreaming like a schoolgirl,” he’d snap, lifting the book from Toby’s hand. 

“I was only–” but then the book would thwack the back of his head, not hard enough to draw attention from people surrounding them but hard enough to stop short his words, and Toby would hang his head in embarrassment as he left his seat and trailed behind his father towards the lobby. 

A few times, Toby would look back to the bar, and Mr. Joshi would be looking his way. Something about his expression seemed almost concerned, but Toby told himself that it was probably just his imagination.  

“Such a waste,” Lord Hamilton tutted. 

* * *

Toby placed his hand over Mr. Joshi’s has he slid him his drink. He didn’t even hesitate to think about it. 

Maybe it was the sudden freedom he had found with the death of his father. The thrill of getting his job. The band. The anonymity of the crowded bar. The smell of fine alcohol. Maybe even Mr. Joshi’s deceptively genuine-sounding speech. Whatever it was, he didn’t remember ever feeling this bold. 

He didn’t know, and he didn’t much care. His fingers trailed over the other man’s. And Mr. Joshi didn’t even flinch, much less pull away. Like he’d been waiting for that a long time. 

Toby slid his eyes up to meet Mr. Joshi's. He wasn’t disappointed. They were just slightly smiling as Mr. Joshi looked down towards their hands.

“You alright there, Toby?”

And in another moment, the bubble burst, and Toby Hamilton remembered exactly who he was. The real world rushed around him in a tidal wave of sounds and bodies, and he pulled his hand back, now awkward and stiff. Adil turned away with a stilted nod. Heavy disappointment swelled in his stomach and he politely greeted Mr. O’Hara, but he pushed it down, and the other man seemed none the wiser. The feeling of Joshi’s smooth skin lingered on his fingertips for the rest of the night. 

* * *

When the rush wore off and his heart stopped beating, Toby was a little surprised at the calm that washed over him. 

Mr. Joshi had kissed him. 

It’s not like he’d never…thought of kissing another boy. Far from it. The idea had fluttered through his thoughts like a whisper since his mid-teens, maybe even a little before. In late quiet nights in the dormitory, in long lonely days at the hotel. It’s just that whenever it formed, he pushed it back and rationalized it away. He didn’t even scold himself, not really, as scolding would require that he acknowledged what he felt. He only told himself that it irrational and unnatural that he didn’t  _really_  want that, of course. Everyone has odd thoughts sometimes. In any case, there isn’t anything wrong in noting, in an intellectual sense, that another man is objectively attractive.  

But then it  _happened._  

Toby stood in the middle of his room for nearly half an hour that night, dazed like the world was spinning. He’d tried to do what he had done for years: rationalize it, cut it into numbers. He was just shocked is all. It came out of nowhere, and, what’s more, was a terrible breach of conduct for a member of the staff. He just needed a break, a drink…it was nothing. He felt nothing. 

Yet the more he repeated them in his mind, the less believable the lies became. He didn’t stop it. He leaned into it. He… _enjoyed_  it. 

He wanted to do it again. 

Toby’s mind wandered back to the ballroom after the raid, when he was high on survival and something else, something alien. The daze had still been there, following him like a hazy fog. He’d stood at the table on the far side, and when he looked up, there was Joshi, who made brief timid eye contact before looking back down. He had been scared, Toby knew. He had reason to be. There was a bit of him that was too, but the bigger part of him felt an odd peace. And there was that feeling again–that wonderful one where he finally knew what he wanted.

When Lady Theresa had stood to ask for a dance, he waved her off. His eyes never left Mr. Joshi. Oh, there would be hell to pay sometime, but that didn’t matter then. All that mattered was that he felt like he finally made sense.

So there it was. Acceptance. Toby expected fear for himself, maybe even disgust. Shock and horror and a desire to run. But when the adrenaline died down, all he really felt, despite it all, was an overwhelming calm. Like a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying had been lifted off. Suddenly, a laugh bubbled out of him. A smile broke over his face, and he covered it with his hand.

Kissing Adil again was a dream. He’d never felt more alive, never felt more at home. Never felt more in command of himself or sure of anything. 

Perhaps his life was a waste. But he knew how he wanted to waste it.  

* * *

Being with Adil didn’t make watching him any less intriguing. If anything, his problem worsened. 

It was easier, honestly, when Toby was seated on the other side of the room from the bar. Through the throngs of dancing bodies and crystal glasses, he could always find the gleaming pressed white of Adil’s jacket. He could feel the same relaxation in his swift bar-tending and watch him charm his customers with that lovely smile. Toby nursed a liquor glass under his lip, letting his mind wander–to stolen hours in his hotel room in the dead of night, laughter muffled under each other’s hand, kisses on his neck and low moans in response, that pristine white jacket on his floor. 

He’d entertain himself like this until Adil would notice him. Usually he’d get a half serious look of reprimand, that half cock of an eyebrow that only made Toby chuckle under his breath. But occasionally, if the brass was particularly low and bold that night and Betsey’s voice particularly lilting, Adil would grant himself a flirtatious glance over the counter, just the slightest of teasing smiles and those wide dark eyes glinting in mischief. 

But when Toby found himself close to the bar, things were harder. At least at first. 

Because then people might notice the lingering glances he sent to the bartender. People might notice if he had a particularly bad day, and let his fingers graze over his hand in an impulsive, momentary need for contact. People might notice if he forgot himself and said too much, or accidentally called Adil by his first name, or…

“Relax,” Adil had finally whispered to him as he passed him a glass he hadn’t ordered, “your nervousness gives far more away.”

So Toby downed the drink, released tension in his shoulders that he hadn’t realized he was holding, and sat back to speak with a friend of Freddie’s. When he looked over the bar again, Adil was sending him a pleased smile from the corner of his eye. Then Toby heard him whisper another comment, one that he wasn’t sure he was actually supposed to hear:

“It’s alright, Mitwa, your father isn’t here.”

Toby looked over the ballroom. It was true, somewhat. He’d half expected his father to break through the ballroom and darken the lights over him like a stormcloud. In a sense, he was still there, just hanging in the edge of his vision from time to time, but disappearing whenever Toby turned his head to look.

But his father was gone. He knew this. Toby just wished his instincts knew that too. 

His father owned 24 years of his life, he sure as hell wasn’t going to own any more of them. 

So the next time he sat by the bar, he let himself lean in a little farther than was truly necessary and smirked at Adil with a wink when he got his drink. Not much, but enough to feel rebellious. Just enough to be a challenge.  

* * *

“What have you done to me?” Toby asked, piercing though the silence of the night. 

Adil tilted his head up to look at him. His cheek had been resting against his hands, which were placed atop Toby’s chest. He blinked twice lazily, as if he had almost been asleep and Toby had rudely awakened him. “I don’t know. What have I done, Mitwa?”

Toby only hummed in response, running his fingers over Adil’s hair. He watched the calm golden glow of his bedside lamp flash through the black strands. The light reflected in Adil’s dark eyes as well, gleaming as they stared up. Toby breathed out. He looked beautiful, even moreso than when he was all pressed and prim and slicked back. Nothing could match the uncommon beauty of Adil with his hair falling gently towards his eyes, relaxed, half naked, and with a tired smile on his lips. Leaning into Toby’s hand as it fell to cup his cheek. 

A bittersweet thought flickered through Toby’s mind. Light but painful, like a beesting. 

_Years from now, when I’m married and sent away, this image is what I’ll remember._

Suddenly, the gentle contentment of the moment was gone. Toby leaned his head back against the headboard. He hated this. That as happy and in love as he could feel, these moments couldn’t just exist on their own. There was always a premature sense of loss that nagged at him the more he tried to ignore it, making its presence known long before it was even fair, because Toby hadn’t lost Adil yet. He likely would. He knew this. But not yet. 

“Darling…” Adil moved up to sit parallel to him, “what is bothering you?”

“It’s utterly frustrating that you can do that.”

“It’s my job,” Adil replied calmly, “I’m–”

“The bartender, and bartenders learn to read people. I know.” 

“I was  _going_  to say the man who loves you,” Adil sighed, running his hand down the front of Toby’s chest. Toby chuckled at that, and finally lifted his head from the headboard to lift an eyebrow at him. 

“Were you really?”

Adil paused. Then the edge of his mouth twitched with laughter. “No, I was going to say the bartender. See…” Adil took his hand off Toby’s chest to gently take his chin and run a thumb over it, “You’ve come to predict all of my moves as well. You know exactly what I say before I say it. Now, Mitwa, what is bothering you?”

And just like that, the nagging pain of loss hit him again. He looked away from Adil again, into the vacant space and shadows of the room.  “You’re right, I do know what you’re going to say. Because we’ve had this conversation before.”

Adil bit his lip and closed his eyes. “Toby…”

“–and your answer was perfectly right and sensible. That there’s no point in me worrying about tomorrow, because there might not even be one, and every time we hear the sirens it could be the end. But…” He almost buried his face in his hands. But then he thought the better of it, and reached forward to grip Adil’s hand, pulling it up so that he may kiss his palm. “I still can’t stop fretting over it, Adil, deep down. I want to be here with you now. But I can’t stop thinking of the future, and of losing you. Of being made to…you know.” He shook his head in embarrassment and frustration.  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Adil reminded him, as he always did when that phrase came tumbling out of Toby's mouth. “Please, don’t apologize.”

Toby nodded. “You’re right. Sorry,” he said before he could stop himself. 

It was like a sick joke. Just as he’d finally gotten over his past hanging on him and weighing him down, the future begun to haunt him just the same. And there was no leaving behind what is yet to come.

“I know you don’t worry about this as I do–”

“I do.” 

Toby looked at Adil in surprise. This time it was his turn to look away, in his case down at his knees in seeming shame. Toby scooted closer to him. 

“What do you mean?” he asked tentatively.  

“I worry all the time,” Adil whispered distantly, moving the hand Toby held and linking their fingers together. “I worry about the day that you might move on, be it to another man, if you wished–”

“Adil, don’t be absurd–”

“–or to a wife.” Adil shrugged shakily, hardly concealing his emotions. “You have responsibilities, I know. And it would be wrong of me to keep you from them. It would hurt. Gravely. I’ve accepted that.”

“You’ve never told me this,” Toby said quietly. 

Adil looked his way again. The soft smile was still on his lips, but it was now weakened by sadness. “Look at you, Toby, you’re already worrying so. No need to add to it. I’m trying to prepare myself.” He tilted his head in a show of playfulness. “You just make yourself awfully hard to lose.”

Toby shook his head. It was slow at first, but then it spend up as he reached forward and pulled Adil into him. Adil betrayed his calm demeanor by gripping him around his back. “You won’t lose me. Not ever.” It was odd. When it was about convincing himself, it never rang true. But for Adil, it felt truer than any words ever spoken. 

“You can’t promise that, darling,” Adil mumbled, in halfhearted jest. 

Toby ran his hand down Adil's back. He wanted to assert his refusal. But they both knew that it may be a lie. Even if Toby wasn’t auctioned off at some point by his mother, there were still so many other ways for someone to go these days. He’s thought of plenty of them. And of course, there’s always prison. 

For Adil. Not him. He understood that much too. It’s kept him up at night. 

“You know,” Adil spoke up again, “My sister once told me that fretting over the future is a waste. A waste of emotion, because if pain is coming you’re going to have to feel it again anyway, and a waste of time, because we have no way of knowing what God is planning. Ruhi wasn’t always good at following the advice herself, but it always appealed to me.” Adil pulled back out of Toby’s arms, to place his hands on either side of his face, “Perhaps the answer is not to ignore the future. We don’t seem to very good at it. Perhaps we should try another strategy.”

Toby grinned, placing his hand atop Adil’s thigh, just at the end of his underwear. “Say Freddie makes it back from the war. Marries Emma on the spot and they have children right away.”

“Then your mother has less of an excuse to get you married.”

Toby sighed in mock relief. Adil laughed at loud, pressing their hands together with their fingers intertwined.

“Let Freddie be Lord Hamilton. I never wanted it anyway.” That wasn’t a full truth. He’s had his moments of jealousy, particularly when every college professor or guest to the hotel would look towards Freddie first, with wide polite smiles that dropped ever so slightly when they took in the less important twin. When his father reminded him in life and death that he was nothing and owned nothing. But he couldn’t have Adil as Lord Hamilton, not likely anyway. Not with so many eyes on him. And at the end of the day, the whole circus had little appeal. “I’ll be the reclusive Mr. Hamilton, locked away with his books in his estate on the edge of the city. Old bachelor, possibly mad.”

“Would anyone live with you in that distant estate, mad Mr. Hamilton?” Adil asked, eyes dancing in amusement. 

“Oh, hardly anyone. A maid, perhaps. A dog. The gardener. Oh, and the head of the household, that odd butler of his. Lovely man. Hired because Mr. Hamilton was just  _so_ impressed by his skills at as the head bartender at the family’s hotel.”

“Seems like quite the job. He may just accept,” Adil said through painfully wide grin. 

“He aught to. Because what no one else knows, except perhaps the dog, is that the butler doesn’t go down to the servant’s quarters at night. He goes upstairs and sleeps next to reclusive, mad Mr. Hamilton, every night for the rest of his life.”

“That sounds like a lovely arrangement, sir.” Adil pecked him on the lips, and Toby returned it. “I believe he will accept indeed.”

Toby ran a hand over Adil’s hair. “I would be most pleased if he did.”

Adil dropped his head to Toby’s shoulder. He nestled under his neck and his eyes closed. Toby hugged him closer, stroking rhythmically up and down his arm until Adil’s warm breaths were steady against his skin. All the while, Toby kept that imagined future clear in his mind, and the tinge of sadness never came. 

If they cared to think about it, which they didn’t, they’d know that such a future was unlikely. But close to impossible was not impossible. And even if it didn’t come, even if Toby has to treasure those quiet moments lying next to a woman he couldn’t love, at least he has them now, lit with golden light and perfect. Tomorrow could wait until tomorrow. They were young. They had time. No need to waste it. At least not in that way. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wasted Youth by Fletcher has kind of become my Toby Hamilton song. It's near the top of my Toby Hamilton playlist on Spotify (because I'm a massive nerd that is way too into character aesthetic playlists) and it was basically played on repeat as I wrote most of this fic. Beautiful song, highly recommended.


End file.
